Confession Of Disinterest Poem by Neil Crawford

It is, more than ever, a petty world, divided,
priorities are inverted, real dangers are ignored,
laughter has disturbance as its source.

An odd desire for silence then, a current motivation,
a private section in a hidden garden beneath
a childhood tree or a secret sea for floaters.

Such morose conjectures serve but to famish further
parades of starvlings at the King's fine feast,
the draining of all conscience.